Rise of the Petrol Queen

by Jon Hartless

  ‘I can’t hear you,’ replied Amy as she cluttered around the kitchen.

  Poppy leapt up from her armchair, encouraged that Amy was at least talking. She stood in the doorway of the kitchen and read the advert again. ‘Do you fancy going?’

  ‘To a suffrage meeting?’ Amy wrinkled her nose in distaste as she sliced a quantity of potatoes. ‘Why would anyone want to go and listen to them?’

  ‘What have you got against them?’

  ‘I just can’t relate to them. They’re definitely lacking. Not like us.’

  ‘Lacking? What are they lacking?’ asked Poppy in bemusement.

  ‘A proper home-life, for one,’ retorted Amy as she dunked the vegetables into a saucepan of boiling water.

  ‘A home-life?’

  ‘The home is the bedrock of acceptable society,’ sniffed Amy. ‘The home and solid family life.’

  Poppy stared at Amy’s conventional belief and the inherent assumptions as to what was “proper” in both the home and wider society. ‘We’re hardly a “normal” couple, at least in society’s rather narrow view.’

  ‘That’s their problem,’ replied Amy, waving “them” away with her hand. ‘We have a proper home life. Unlike the suffrage women!’

  A memory flashed through Poppy’s mind of doing housework when living with her father, a role she had picked up as a young girl without even being told to do so; she cooked and cleaned while her father didn’t. And now the exact same behaviour was unthinkingly repeating itself in the tiny cottage. Were they all so imbued with society’s expectations that even in an unconventional relationship, conventionality was still king?

  ‘Amy,’ she began, gazing at Amy’s slender beauty which was in stark contrast to Poppy’s much larger frame. ‘Amy, you don’t see me as being the man in our... friendship, do you?’10

  Amy sniggered, somewhat nastily. ‘As soon as we get back home you sink into your armchair with the paper while I’m sent out here to cook dinner. You just need a pipe and a pair of slippers.’

  ‘You don’t like me in the kitchen,’ protested Poppy. ‘You said I mess everything up.’

  ‘You do. That steak you cooked for us was damn near cremated!’

  ‘It was cooked through. Just the way I like it.’

  ‘A steak should be a lovely golden brown, not the colour of soot. My fork bounced off it when I tried to eat it.’ Amy’s demeanour became more confident now they were on a subject at which she was clearly better than Poppy.

  ‘Maybe,’ replied Poppy, deciding not to argue the point if it would buy some peace. ‘But what gives you the idea members of the suffrage movement are lacking in some way?’

  ‘It’s fairly obvious; haven’t you seen the back of the paper?’ said Amy with a snide grin.

  Poppy flipped the paper so she could see the other side. The editor had seen fit, opposite the paid advertisement for the suffrage meeting, to run a series of illustrations on the dangers of the women’s movement. Panel after panel showed the same crude humour: small, harassed husbands being bullied by large women; caricatures of ugly women demanding husbands for old maids; women in various places of work while smoking pipes and several other variations on the same theme, all revealing the fears and horrors of the male editors.

  ‘Seriously?’ demanded Poppy in exasperation. ‘You’ve seen the way the press treats me and you get angry about that, but you can’t see this is exactly the same thing? This is just the media demanding people live their lives in accordance with society’s narrow rules.’

  ‘It’s not the same at all,’ bridled Amy, busying herself with non-existent jobs so she didn’t have to face Poppy. ‘I know those articles about you are wrong because I know you.’

  ‘Yet you can’t extend your awareness on how the media treats me and realise they treat others in the same way? The whole point of these illustrations is to demean any women who dare be different.’

  ‘It’s still not the same,’ repeated Amy, stubbornly.

  ‘Why not?’

  Amy glowered at the far wall. She hated arguing with Poppy because she always lost; Poppy confused her with logical reasoning. ‘The lies they tell about you are personal; it’s not the same as when they describe something like the suffrage movement. That’s not personal because there are too many people there for it to be personal. The press are showing what the whole movement is like.’

  ‘So when they attack an individual it’s personal, but when they attack a group it’s fair and reasonable journalism?’

  ‘I don’t know why you want to go anyway,’ replied Amy, her nose in the air as she evaded the issue by jumping onto another topic, a frequent gambit now very familiar to Poppy.

  ‘I think it’s interesting,’ replied Poppy, leaving the kitchen and flinging herself sulkily into her armchair. ‘I just don’t understand how you can break all the supposedly acceptable codes of society by living with another woman and in being a mechanic – hardly an approved activity – and then be implacably against the suffrage movement.’

  ‘They’re only after attention.’

  ‘After attention? How did you get to that conclusion?’

  ‘It’s in all the papers,’ snapped Amy, resuming her loud banging and crashing of crockery and pans to end the conversation.

  ‘Fine; if you think you’ll be tainted by association we needn’t go,’ muttered Poppy, upset that Amy’s opinion was derived solely from the male-dominated press. How could Amy be so determined to fight certain injustices and yet be so blind to the rest? Was it because she could only engage with social issues which affected her directly, while everything else was written off as being unworthy or just plain wrong? Was she really so saturated with society’s prejudices?

  Poppy was aware their lack of shared interests created a gulf between them, but she was genuinely shocked Amy held such traditional views about other women simply because

  they lay outside her own limited experiences, a revelation which left Poppy deeply unhappy with herself, Amy, and their entire relationship.

  8 The papers could get their copy out almost immediately by either the phone or the Wire Tapping Service, the precursor of the Global Wireless Network. The Wire Tap, similar to today’s GWN, was only available to those individuals or businesses wealthy enough to afford it.

  9 Poppy’s own description, taken from her diary.

  10 Even at home, in private, Poppy and Amy used coded words for their relationship. Such was the period they lived in. In many ways, things have not improved much in Britain even today, despite the legalising of same-sex relationships in 2021.

  Chapter Four

  Disgusting GREED of female driver POPPY ORPINGTON! A Daily Post editorial.

  Everyone with a sense of DECENCY will be outraged and APPALLED by the immoral sums of money made by female racing driver Poppy Orpington.

  Since her fluke win at Purley last year, instead of retiring with a sense of shame for her disgraceful actions, she has shamelessly and hysterically milked her infamy for nothing more than sheer greed and attention, making HUNDREDS of pounds from a series of tasteless adverts featuring her and her dangerous car.

  And this is not her money – no, it is OUR money, for she takes it straight from the wallets and purses of the British public! But then, what else can we expect from Miss Moneybags, a woman so brazen and twisted by liberal ideas that she drives a car? A woman deformed in both character and body?11 What other displays of disgraceful socialism and unchristian behaviour can we expect? What other display of selfishness will she inflict upon the public? The Daily Post will keep you informed with its award winning reporting!

  If you have a story about Poppy Orpington, get in touch today! Cash is waiting!

  Lord Geoffrey Hepplewhite looked in satisfaction at the Purley Motor Racing boardroom. This was his world, one he had built up from virtually nothing, and to him it exemplified everything good and proper in society. Dark wood panelling surrounded him on all sides, though much of the exquisite detailing was hidden b
ehind a series of prints, watercolours, and a great many trophies and certificates won by Hepplewhite’s own motor cars over the past 20 years.

  As such, Hepplewhite felt he had a duty to protect the gentlemanly world of motor racing from the disturbing invasion of loud, vulgar petrol cars. In truth, it was the driver which disturbed him more than the vehicle, for Poppy was both female and working class, but Thunderbus made a very good cover for his bigotry.12 He was certainly aware of the difference between Poppy and his fellow board members who were all titled, entitled, and carried excellent pedigrees.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he beamed around the table. ‘Thank you for attending this extra meeting at such short notice, but I fear we are facing a threat to our beloved motorsport.’

  ‘A threat?’ queried the Honourable Tarquin Lacey, one of the many indistinguishable men sat around the table, well-fed and complacent on their inherited wealth. ‘I thought everything was going swimmingly.’

  ‘Things were,’ replied Hepplewhite, ‘until the appearance of that abomination at our final race meeting last year.’ The board members shifted uneasily in their seats. They knew what – and who – Hepplewhite was referring to; it was something of a sore subject with him. ‘We must amend the rules to ensure there can be no repetition of the disgraceful scenes we saw last year.’ He gazed around the room and was somewhat disconcerted to see very few were meeting his eye. ‘I assume we are in agreement on the issue?’

  ‘It’s all in the past, isn’t it?’ muttered Lacey. ‘After all, your son was awarded the victory, and for a record fourth time, which is an incredible feat.’ A mumble of agreement met his words; this at least was something they could all safely agree upon.

  ‘I am quite aware of my son’s achievements,’ replied Hepplewhite, privately reflecting that many of Oswald’s achievements were not fit to be discussed in public. He would have been horrified to discover many on the board already knew of his son’s peccadilloes; the aristocracy was a small club and it did not take long for any morsel of gossip to travel around the closed community. Lord Hepplewhite, however, had long been adept at seeing only that which he wished to see.

  ‘Then we are in agreement,’ beamed Lacey, hoping he had deflected the unpleasant topic.

  ‘I certainly hope so,’ replied Hepplewhite, gazing back suspiciously. ‘Having disqualified... that person last year for her infractions against our rules, it therefore makes perfect sense to ensure she cannot enter any future event on any racetrack ever again.’

  An embarrassed rumble circulated the room. Although it was certainly true Poppy had been disqualified, technically she had not broken any of the rules in the Purley racing handbook. It had finally been agreed that the spirit of the rules had been broken and hence her disqualification was a sound and proper thing. The fact this pleased the Hepplewhite family was a mere coincidence.

  ‘I trust we are in agreement on this, gentlemen?’ persisted Hepplewhite.

  ‘Well,’ replied Lacey, glancing around the room and seeing once again he was going to have to speak for all of them. ‘While of course our decision last season was correct and final, and will continue to be correct and final, there are other considerations which need to be... um... considered.’

  ‘What considerations?’ snapped Hepplewhite, staring in disbelief. He had worked with these men for years in complete agreement on all subjects; to now find a voice of discord was as unthinkable and as distressing as... well, it was as unthinkable as letting a working class woman compete in gentlemanly sports.

  ‘Have you seen the sales figures from the last quarter?’ enquired Lacey, realising he had no choice but to plunge into the real issue facing them all. ‘We have been running at a modest profit for the last few years from the gate receipts, and then we also have the income from the sale of memorabilia such as postcards, plaques, mugs, pens, posters...’

  ‘I am aware of the vast range of merchandise available,’ interrupted Hepplewhite, icily.

  ‘Of course, of course’ soothed Lacey, ‘but have you seen the spike in the sales?’

  ‘Sales are up by over forty percent,’ interrupted Lord Phipps, his chubby face beaming at the thought of his dividends. ‘And the gate receipt for our last race was the largest on record.’

  ‘I am quite aware of the financial aspect,’ snapped Hepplewhite, ‘but some things are above money.’

  ‘Like trophies, I suppose?’ murmured Lacey, gazing at the huge silver cup awarded to Oswald Hepplewhite after his infamous win. A repressed snigger went round the group, quickly transmuting into a series of innocent coughs, yet the mocking sound echoed long after in Lord Hepplewhite’s ears. Sedition had reared, the former smooth order was cracking, and it was all the fault of the lower orders and their common, petrol-fuelled vehicles.

  ‘Look, Geoffrey,’ began Phipps, aiming for a friendly “man of the world” approach. ‘We all agree with you this woman is beyond the pale and her car is a disgusting, loud, awful contraption lacking the grace and panache of a proper steam-powered vehicle, but we have to face facts; the appeal of Thunderbus in the mind of the public – callow and crass as it undoubtedly is – cannot be ignored. Sales up by forty percent. Forty! No-one else has ever brought that sort of figure in.’

  ‘And the Telecasting companies spliced the film together of the race and it played in the Motion Picture Theatres for weeks,’ observed Sir David Manderville. ‘If we had demanded a share of the box office instead of accepting a flat fee on the day of the race, as I said we should have done at the time, we would have seen an even greater return on our investment. I’m told the film is still playing now in some distant parts of the empire!’

  ‘You mean Birmingham?’ asked a wit, to much laughter.

  ‘There is more to our glorious sport than money,’ spluttered Hepplewhite. ‘What of honour and dignity?’

  ‘I fail to see how we will lose our dignity by letting this girl back again,’ said the Honourable Rupert Lidington, distinguishable from the rest of the board only by his red velvet top hat, originally created for his father three decades before. ‘Besides, the negative publicity we drew for disqualifying her was a public disaster. We’re still getting letters about it now from outraged proles.’

  ‘And what of it?’ exclaimed Hepplewhite. ‘Are we to be moved by the social agitation of the lower orders? I think not!’

  ‘Then at least consider the fact,’ said Lidington in exasperation, ‘that one of the reasons motor racing exists is to test new cars and new innovations. All cars have a right to compete. If a new design fails on the track, then market forces will take care of the rest.’13

  ‘Exactly,’ agreed Lord Hugo Grieve. ‘People won’t buy a car proven to be unreliable; if this petrol vehicle is unreliable, then let the world see! And in the meantime, we can collect the revenue from the public as they come to watch it.’

  Hepplewhite glared around the table, unable to point out that the petrol vehicle had now trounced – twice – the best his factory had to offer. ‘Then can we at least agree a race track is no place for a woman, and draft a new rule to that effect immediately?’

  ‘Normally, yes,’ replied Phipps, still thinking of the forty percent increase in revenue. ‘But I believe the car is the personal property of Poppy Orpington herself. Ban the woman and we ban the car, and in effect we ban the extra gate receipts.’ A mumble of agreement went round the room.

  ‘Very well,’ breathed Hepplewhite, forcing himself to talk normally as he looked for a way to salvage the situation. ‘There was another issue I needed to discuss today.’

  ‘Good, good, and what is that?’ beamed Grieve. A loud silence fell across the room. The directors glanced at each other as the silence grew, sprouting in all directions as Lord Hepplewhite stared at his notes, his pen, the door, the trophies – everywhere except at his fellow directors. ‘Um, the other business, Geoffrey?’

  ‘Yes, yes, the other business, the other business, is... er... is... er.’ Hepplewhite’s eye fell on the large clock fixed to
the opposite wall. ‘Time! That is the other business.’

  ‘Time, old boy?’

  ‘Yes, representations have been made to me about time. Time keeping.’

  ‘We’re not working to the clock now, are we?’ asked Lidington in alarm. ‘What are we, factory workers?’

  ‘No, time on the track,’ exclaimed Hepplewhite in triumph as an idea finally formed in his mind. ‘We need a new time system’

  ‘I’m not with you, old boy,’ said Phipps in puzzlement. ‘The cars go, we time them for the records, first over the finish line is the winner. Nice and simple, just as the public wants.’

  ‘Exactly,’ beamed Hepplewhite. ‘We can no longer tolerate such an unfair system.’

  ‘Unfair?’

  ‘Yes. For some years now there have been complaints it is unfair to race so many different types of car together,’ said Hepplewhite, bolstered by the fact this was actually true, though he had always ignored the complaints as being irrelevant. ‘We need a handicapping system to ensure a fair and even playing field.’

  ‘Do we?’ asked Phipps, puzzled. ‘How does a handicapping system even work?’

  ‘Badly,’ interrupted Grieve. ‘They always result in bad feelings amongst the crowd and the drivers. It’s practically impossible to get a fair system going.’

  ‘It is done on the Continent,’ observed Lidington, his expression showing his disapproval of all things foreign. ‘Some French tracks limit the competitors to certain weight or power ratios for each race. Of course, that only works abroad because there are far more large-scale manufacturers over there, so there are more entries for each race and so the crowd still gets the spectacle of a close, competitive event.’

  ‘I can’t see it working here,’ said Phipps, decisively. ‘We only have about fifteen or so competitors at each event. If we ran different races for different types of car, we’d have three vehicles in one race, four in another, maybe three the next. It would be dreadful. No spectacle at all.’14